All in Mail Never Clinking
by Falcon-Rider
Summary: A gasp wrenched from her throat, her body stiffening as Catelyn awoke with a start. Her right hand pressed quickly against the skin of her throat, pulled quickly away, and then fluttered hesitantly back as her left clenched in the soft blankets beneath her. (Time Travel/Visions)
1. Chapter 1

This is reposted from my AO3 account Sanva.

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A gasp wrenched from her throat, her body stiffening as Catelyn awoke with a start. Her right hand pressed quickly against the skin of her throat, pulled quickly away, and then fluttered hesitantly back as her left clenched in the soft blankets beneath her. Her eyes darted about the room, dark but for a soft glow from a few candles placed within the hearth. It took her a moment to register that she was home, within the walls of her bed chamber in Winterfell, safe, and within the last few months of a pregnancy.

She pressed the blankets away from her and stood, shakily, as energy coursed through her body. Fully awake, mind twisting about, going over the details of where she was and the dream—nightmare that was still at the forefront of her mind . . .

Catelyn pressed her lips tightly together, glancing back at her bed. The side Ned slept most nights was empty, ruffled only from her own movements as she had left it. Everything was muddled together from the dream and little in the room explained which child she was pregnant with and that was such an odd thought. She remembered birthing all five of her children, nursing them, raising them. From Robb's nose that wrinkled with every suckle to little Rickon's harsh nips against her skin as his teeth began to come in. That one or more of them was a dream, part of a nightmare?

She breathed in and then out, crossing the room to grab her nightrail and slip it over her head. A thick robe wrapped about her next and she slipped her feet into a pair of slippers she barely remembered, embroidered with the sigil of her father's house alongside her husbands. Catelyn worked on them when pregnant with Sansa, as she watched over her eldest toddling about and tried to ignore the dark-haired boy crawling after him.

The door to her chamber seemed like an obstacle near insurmountable in the near darkness. A challenge that would either lead her to a truth she didn't know if she could trust.

What happened after death was contested from religion to religion, something she knew well having grown up within the faith of the Seven and then moving to where the Old God's were worshipped. Perhaps the memory of her death, so fresh in her mind, was the truth of things and this room was a punishment, the child she could feel within her but a tease of the past?

Her hand fluttered up to press against her throat. It met soft, skin and a few stray hairs that had escaped from her braid. Eyes slipping closed, Catelyn dropped her hands to press over the curve of her stomach. Six months, seven, depending on the child. No two carried exactly alike. Her body had differed in size during each pregnancy, gaining the most when carrying Sansa, the least with Bran.

Eyes sliding back open she stepped forward and opened the door to her room. There was a maid at the end of the corridor, deftly repairing tunics in the light from a nearby torch. Her eyes darted up and she moved to set aside her work.

"My Lady—"

Catelyn smiled at her and held up a hand. "I need for nothing," she said softly, just loud enough for her voice to carry to the maid and the guard at the other end of the corridor. "I just need a bit of fresh air and perhaps to check on my children. You can return to your work for now."

The maid nodded, hesitantly sitting down again. Her hair was a light brown, common in the North, along with light blue eyes. She was one of four sisters that served within the Stark Household, their family having worked for House Stark for generations. Catelyn couldn't place her name, three of the girls had looked quite alike, two had been twins. Her eyes followed Catelyn's movement down the corridor towards the rooms her children occupied.

The room Robb had moved into, the heirs room, upon his tenth name day was empty, no light shining from beneath the door. It wasn't until she neared the nursery that she found any of the children's rooms.

Until Sansa's tenth name day, she and Arya had shared a room close to the nursery just as Robb and Jon had until their own—much to Catelyn's dismay. She pauses at the first room before quietly pushing the door open. The hinges creak slightly, but the sound is barely noticeable above the crackling fire in the hearth. The space where the nursemaid would sit to attend the fire is empty. Her eyes trail across the room. Two beds are set across from each other, a compromise she had made with Ned, one empty it's covers pushed back.

Breath catching in her throat, Catelyn padded forward until she could get a good look at the boys. They lay in Robb's bed, tangled about each other beneath the furs. Robb's face is turned towards her, the pale, freckled skin and red hair glinting in the dim light.

Feet aching, she settles at the end of the bed, doing her best to avoid disturbing the two boys as she looks over them. Her eldest son alive and well, sleeping peacefully, tangled with his bastard brother. They look about seven or so, perhaps, it was difficult to tell in the dim of night.

"Lady Stark?"

She turns her head, blue eyes finding Jon Snow's dark gaze. She watches the sleepy-eyed boy for a moment, the tense line of his face, the way his hand clenched in the furs as if he is considering pushing it off himself. As if he was about to run away.

The boy hadn't been there when his brother had died. He hadn't been there for any of his siblings. Instead he'd been up at the wall, guarding a block of ice from wildlings and legends. If he had been at Robb's side . . . no that was unfair. It hadn't been the boy's fault that he had left. If anything, it had been her inability to accept his presence.

She was the one who had forsaken the oath she'd made to the Gods in favor of her own vanity.

A small smile forced its way onto her lips. "Go back to sleep Jon," she said softly, voice barely carrying between them as she rubbed a hand over her stomach. At his wary look she continued, "Your sibling is just keeping me awake. I thought a walk would do me well and wanted to check on . . . on the rest of you as well."

Jon's eyes drifted from her face to lock on her hand. He bit his lip. "Do you think it's another girl?"

She surveyed him for a moment and then arched her eyebrow. "Do you want another sister?"

He shrugged, eyed darting up to look at him. "Arya is a bit loud at times and Sansa," he paused and looked down at his hand as it picked at the fur beneath his finger.

Sansa, she knew, had recently learned what 'bastard' meant.

He glanced up at her. "Robb wants another brother."

"Perhaps the child will be a boy then," she told him before pushing herself gently up. "I am sure Robb will be a wonderful big brother . . ." she paced away, towards the door, but paused halfway there as she felt the babe kick her. She pressed her hand gently against where the foot had landed. She glanced back towards him, catching his grey eyes as they shined oddly in the firelight. Catelyn let out a breath and let her features soften further. "As will you." His eyes widened as she turned and quietly pulled the door open as she swiftly made her way into the hall, heart beat thudding.

The hall was no different than it had been before, no different than it had been years past when her children were babes. It had been some time since Winterfell had been touched by war, at least until Theon's betrayal. The thought of that murderer froze her still outside the door to the room that had served as her daughter's nursery. Something would have to be done with him, at least to prevent a similar betrayal in the future. He was a boy yet.

Only moments passed before she pressed her way into the room that held her daughters. Arya still slept in a crib while Sansa was swathed in soft blankets and warm furs in the bed she would share in the near future with her sister. Their nursemaid sat crocheting in front of the fire, ready to attend any need that noisy little Arya may require. Catelyn barely spared her a glance as she quietly checked on her girls. Both were asleep and neither awoke as she gently caressed their silky hair, admiring how young and innocent of the trials of life they looked.

Things would be different, she promised them. If this was real . . . if the Gods were truly giving her another chance she would take it with both hands. Once, years ago even at this point in time, Catelyn had broken an oath made to the Seven. That would have to change if she wanted things to be different. This time Jon Snow would stand aside his siblings and she would keep her promise.

This time her family would live.

She would make sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

A squeal of delight drew Catelyn's gaze away from Bran toddling from brightly colored flower to brightly colored flower. She quickly found the source, little Arya clambering amongst the rocks at the edge of the warm spring that fed the pool at the center of the godswood. "Arya!" She straightened, but before she could more than press her palms into the green grass beneath her, her husband's second son rushed to his sister's side, arms and hands at the ready to steady or catch the little girl.

"Jon!" Arya giggled, jumping into a little pool of water before snagging his waiting hand.

Catelyn leaned back, a small smile on her lips as she watched them. The dark haired boy led Arya to a little pool of water at the edge of the stream, pointing out some little creatures from her squeals of delight.

"No! Not there!" Sansa called from nearby, lecturing her elder brother, "That's the castle!"

"Looks like a rock to me!" Robb protested, wrinkling his nose as he held his wooden 'sword' still at his side. With Jon's disappearance it appeared that their play of knights and princesses and monsters had lost a thread of story.

"Mother."

She turned to see her youngest, fists full of little frost bells, golden buttercups, and blades of grass staring at her with wide, grey-blue eyes. Her little Bran, two name days old, spoke little in the presence of others. His babbles were saved for the dead of night and only when his frustrations couldn't be quelled by other means. It had worried her, still did, but not as much as other things did.

The hurt of her own death, the knowledge of it, burned within her and helped her keep a strong hold on the memories from before, even as she forged new ones. She wasn't the only one who seemed to differ, however, as little Bran from the moment of his birth was quieter, stronger, and seemed to understand her and others better than any infant had right to.

She only hoped that he couldn't remember the fire that took his life. That a boy he'd grown beside, practically as brothers, had betrayed him and taken his life.

"Thank you, sweetling." Catelyn held out her palms and allowed her son to place his gifts upon them. Once she had wrapped her long fingers about the stems, he stumbled forward and collapsed to his knees, pressing his face against her skirts tiredly. He had been running about all morning, had skipped his usual nap as their family enjoyed the first truly warm day since the white raven proclaiming the end of one of the shortest winters on record had swooped into the rookery.

She set the flowers aside, upon the basket that held cracked bread, cheese, and some fresh fruits, carefully picking out the blades of green from the white and golden blossoms. Her left hand ran gently over Bran's back and she watched as he breathed softly against her skirts, eyelashes brushing against the thin skin beneath his eyes.

Another squeal drew her eyes to where Jon had grabbed hold of his little sister, her skirts wet to the knee. He carried her quickly from the mud and sand to the grass beyond. Arya's nose was wrinkled in dismay and her hands were getting mud upon Jon's shirt as she pushed at him until he lifted and spun her round. The protests turned to giggles. A moment after he set her down, he presented her with a stick and bowed before her, snagging one for himself, discarded during earlier play, and challenged her to a duel.

Catelyn chuckled softly at the sight of them, tamping down the still niggling thoughts of disdain at seeing her daughter play knight instead of princess. If Arya wished to spend her time learning the sword or dagger, she would bargain with her. In exchange for lessons on needlework, she'd gladly have her daughter learn to dance amongst her brothers at the heel of Ser Rodrick. Arya would be given every chance to learn to protect herself.

"Cat," her husband's voice was soft, rough, quiet.

"Hmm?" she turned to meet his gaze, soft grey that peered into her.

Ned had been gone too much for her liking in the past three years, first to war and then, time and again, to meet with his bannermen. There had been little time to relax on either of their parts as he sought to reaffirm bonds and oaths of times long past and she to forge knew friendships and alliances with the women of the North.

"You said earlier you wished to speak," he leaned close and brushed a blade of grass from her sleeve, "yet little of substance has been said."

"I know," she acknowledged with a soft sight, gently brushing Bran's soft, red-brown waves from his cheek.

"When you first spoke to me last year, of your dreams . . . memories," Ned stopped and sighed. "Every time you say you need to speak with me of something of great import I worry that you have dreamed of something new. That some new memory waits to stab me through the heart."

"I have no new memories to share with you on this day," Catelyn reached out and pressed her palm against his cheek. "None but those we make now."

"Then what?"

She dropped her hand and glanced at Bran before looking aside to where Arya and Jon played still, her daughter chasing her husband's bastard about, brandishing the stick he'd handed her earlier.

"It's Jon."

His features darkened slightly. "I thought you had no issue with him. That you wished him to remain here. At Robb's side."

"I do." Catelyn nodded, meeting his eyes again. Truly she did. Jon was a better companion for Robb and her children than any other could hope to be. There was a reason she had insisted Theon Greyjoy spend ten months of the year fostering at White Harbor instead of within Winterfell's walls. It may have been under the pretense of Theon learning skills that would serve him well on the Iron Islands, but it was truly more personal than that. "I wish for you to write to King Robert."

He frowned and she looked away, back to Bran's pale features.

"Give him your name and one day a holdfast in the Wolfswood or even Moat Cailin if you so choose." Catelyn did her best to keep her voice from wavering. "Place him beneath any siblings born to you and I in succession by royal decree. But give him your name."

"Cat . . ." he sounded pained as her name left his lips at a whisper. It drew her attention back to him. His features were taut and he was looking down at his hands.

She had thought he would be happy, thankful. That her husband might smile widely at her and capture her lips into a kiss. That he would whisper his thanks, and apologies, into her hair.

"What?"

"Catelyn," Ned shook his head, "thank you, but . . . I don't. That, perhaps, is not—"

"Dragon."

Bran's whisper drew their attention to the little boy laying between them. He was staring at his father, face a solemn mask, still and serious, more so than Catelyn had ever seen her husbands. He was holding a pale blue wildflower towards his father.

Ned paled at the sight and Catelyn stared between them brow furrowing as she tried to . . .

 _Gods. No._ He couldn't mean . . . It was impossible.

"Dragon," Bran repeated as he pushed himself up to his knees and then lifted himself up to stand. He dropped the flower upon her dress and then squealed, running as quickly as his little legs could carry him to where Jon and Arya still dodged each other. He launched himself at Jon with a roar only to be caught by the older boy's arms as they tumbled into a mess of grass and wild flowers. Arya tossed away her sword and joined their pile moments later.

Catelyn turned back to her husband, breath shallow as she watched him. Scrutinized the play of emotions over his face, the paleness of his features.

Bran didn't speak much and when he did the words held weight. Truth.

Her husband had come back from the war with his sister's bones and a bastard child. A child whose mother he refused to name.

"Cat—"

"Send the raven," she said quickly. This was not the time or place to discuss this. Not with their children running about. She pushed herself up, brushing off her skirts. "Just . . . send the raven."


End file.
